Monthly Archives: May 2012

If you follow this blog at all, and I’m talking to BOTH OF YOU RIGHT NOW, you know that I took a two-week hiatus. During that drunken black out break I became afraid to check the WordPress stats page, because a ‘no views today’ would have made me cry like an infant in a puddle of my own pathetic.

And I would have been naked so don’t picture that in your head – to late? Shit, sorry.

But eventually the little voice my head said, “dear dickhead, you umm going to update this fucking thing or what? You’ve got one that’s almost ready to go. How about not surfing for porn and or playing games tonight and like taking 10 fucking minutes to, I don’t know, update this shit.”

The little voice was right and I was spending entirely too much time at ratemyrack.com (Emily YOU’RE STILL NUMBER 1 baby!) and not enough time making an ass out of myself here, for your enjoyment. So I uploaded business trip tips and thought, “fuck it Sasha hasn’t called in like a week, we’re good.”

Then I looked at the stats.

Jesus. Christ. Fuck. God. Almighty. What. The. Fuck?

There are days here that I don’t post that get more hits than days that I did post.

I’d love to say it’s because of all of you, the ones that are literally reading this now. I know you came back to share some of my lovely wit with your friends and family. Maybe you showed grandma that wonderful update where I used the words tits, beer, fuck and ball hair all in the same sentence, I mean that was an epic sentence but alas, it was not the reason the stats were still high.

See I wasn’t kidding … it’s all about sauna boners at had a few beers

It’s because, and you likely know this, sauna boners. Yeah sauna boners. I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me. (By the way that sentence has never before been written, ‘I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me’ … FIRST BABY).

D.C. Dana has awesome search terms, “mars robot, heat shield, kittens,” as an example. I never get cool search terms that includes robots and only one kitten hit. It was ‘kitten boners’ though so not much of a win there.

Two word press bloggers I follow, Sweet mother and Oh my god my wife is German I bet don’t get too many boner hits. Okay Oh my god my wife is German probably gets a few but they are the good kind of boner hits such as: are boners okay in Germany vice Boner hot boning in boning country. Actually I have never had a hit for, boner hot boning in boning country but I expect to any minute, mainly cause I’ll add it to the tags so … there’s that.

The point is boners are keeping me up (yeah, yeah you see what I did there) hits wise so … thanks. I’m happy you like reading about erections in mixed company saunas, even though they don’t really happen. And I love that you come here looking for porn (has your search engine of choice no image preview function) with terms like, “German sauna erection” and find my dumb ass spout off about Rush Limbaugh or the horror that IS the Golden Corral.

Then there are the other ones. The weird, what the hell, hits. Vacuum cleaner sex, which okay I get it’s a fucking (get it) niche but besides a weird rant I did a month ago, I NEVER MENTIONED fucking vacuums. Sure I’ve looked at the vacuum and though, could I? But I never wrote about that, until now I mean.

Here’s a fun one, “boob moles.” That was an actual search term for this blog (more than once), ‘boob moles’ and again I’m left wondering why. I KNOW on a base level why, I have the most

Sometimes I play connect the boob freckles (they’re NOT MOLES asshole!) with these photos but it’s hard with all my drooling .

awesome friend that on demand sends me cleavage photos and her boobs have moles on them (it makes them hotter oddly) but WHO THE FUCK COMES HERE TO INVESTIGATE BOOB MOLES …

Here’s a fun search term that four of our wonderful internet neighbors used to come to this blog, “trolls have sex with female elf.” And honestly who among us hasn’t googled trolls have sex with female elf a few times but I’m just not sure why the internet algorithms would point them here.

Finally there is this search term, ‘dorie gary broken’. Yeah, whatever that is. I Googled dorie gary broken and Google basically told me to shut the hell up

Haven’t updated in a while because, well fuck you it’s summer and who wants to type a bunch of words when it’s sunny and hot outside. Not me that’s who. Anyway just returned from a few TDY (business) trips and thought, you know what this blog needs? Public Service Announcements that’s what!

Thus …

Rules for business trips:

When drunk in your hotel room a close up photo of your balls texted to 45 of your closest friends will not be all that funny the next morning.

Okay, yes it will be, but only if it’s REALLY close … with a few ball hairs. That makes the joke funny. You need a few ball hairs in the photo.

Free for use internet images for herpies come up with some pretty funny results.

The fact that “Sasha” has offered you a dance in the “private room” does not mean you and her somehow ‘connected’ and anyway herpes doesn’t care. More on Sasha in a moment though.

Internet porn is free. Hotel TV porn is not. Do the math.

Hotel porn really, really sucks too.

Married males only: Internet porn is best enjoyed in rationed doses. If you find yourself looking at a naked midget clown mowing the lawn, literally mowing a lawn, it’s time for bed.

After a certain number of business trips you will likely shun all human contact after working hours. No longer will you desire to see the local post card production museum in (insert town here) or go out with your fellow travelers but will wish to remain secluded in your room most, if not all, nights. Refrain from building a fort from the hotel room’s pillows and sheets near the door.

If that’s impossible, build in an escape route, while giggling if possible.

The minibar in your own room should be treated with respect, only touched when needed. The minibar in anyone else’s room should be used and abused like a roman slave. #protip free beer is always available in someone else’s minibar.

Yes, yes you can have a beer in an airport no matter what time it is. Literally most international airports have bars that are open always. Use this opportunity to find out what you think is funny when you drink at 6 a.m. with no food. Facebook the results for extra credit fun.

Any offer by anyone traveling with you to go ‘out’ that night that is not a ‘tried and tested’ companion can and likely will result in a hangover that is level eight. Proceed with caution.

Currency conversion when drunk is best done by adding up the number of drinks consumed, multiplied by the hours spent in the establishment, divided by … just hand over the credit card. If you’re in an ‘unusual country’ said credit card will be declined and you will have to call the fraud alert hot line in the morning to, technical terms follows, “unfuck it.”

There is a 50-50 chance the boss is as hung over as you are. Should you find yourself not at all hung-over, spike the football. If not hung-over

This was not the best free for use image I could find for hungover but it was the one that made me laugh the most.

and wondering if the boss is hung-over, invite him out. If he gags, spike. Works. Every. Time.

No matter how prepared you were you forgot the most important up-to-date document. Deal with that.

The most important up-to-date document is really useless. It won’t survive day one of the real reason you’re traveling anyway.

Anyone that has a “good idea” or plans a “fun” ice breaker should be savagely stripped of all their clothing and beaten by the group with large sticks … or congratulated for being the most awesome person ever. Whichever.

Stripping a person of all their clothes and beating them with sticks should never be suggested as an icebreaker but would but a very memorable icebreaker.

Alone time in a hotel room is an excellent opportunity to go over every inch of your skin for weird shit. Odd bumps, hairs, anomalies, third nipples whatever. You’re likely naked anyway. Fuck the hotel furniture.

The hotel furniture is likely FULL of butt germs.

The temp of the hotel room can always be set to plus or minus five degrees of what you decide is awesome.

Printing any document while traveling will be a level 8-million clusterfuck, resign yourself.

The taxi driver will not speak you language … I don’t care what language you speak, he won’t speak it. This somehow equates to a better tip.

Any decision made after 11 p.m. will have interesting consequences.

No matter how much fun you’re having at the club don’t call home to tell your spouse about it.

Don’t.

Trust me.

Never let Sasha talk on the phone to your significant other, the phone bill is too high.

Don’t give Sasha your phone number. If your SO gives her the number … flee south.

If Sasha and your SO talk for more than 5 minutes, find religion and pray, pray for all you’re worth, that the plane going home crashes. This won’t happen of course so spend big at the duty free/gift shop … you will buy something they don’t want or even like but … okay hope the plane goes down.

While we are on Sasha, her ass is neither better than anyone else’s and you would not come to the “yard” for it in the morning. It’s a cute ass but it doesn’t need to be spoken of tomorrow.

Never say milkshake when referring to a person’s butt. Milk and butts are words that should not be combined.

When smoking in a non-smoking room always open and blow the smoke out the window. Offer the housekeeping staff a liberal bribe because you eventually got drunk and just “smoked it up” anyway.

Did you just send out a heart-felt email to a long lost lover from high school? Did you just cry? Are you currently naked and peeing in the sink? If yes, go to bed.

If any trusted coworker says at breakfast, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you!” Trust them. If you at breakfast say to a trusted coworker, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you?” Cover their ass and extract all the tales. Yeah that Sasha is a trip isn’t she?

Because I can’t think of a damned thing that is funny to write about I’m going to write about not having anything to write about.

These are my conversations with myself when I’m thinking about what to write here when I have no clear ideas.

Internal dialog starts now …

Damn it when you started this you said you were going to post something every other day yet you haven’t posted anything in like 18 years.

Chill out, the blogs only a few months old, you’re still finding your ‘focus.’

What the fuck is a focus? I mean really it’s a retarded blog that mentions drinking beer in the very title. It’s in the domain name for Christ’s sake, just post any goddamn retarded thing. The name is www.hadafewbeers.com it’s right there in the address. Just post “I like boobs.” Post it over and over again ala Jack in the Shining but you know, with more boobs.

Okay I’d laugh at that but I’m not sure many other people would.

Okay, okay then what about that time the dishwasher broke and some of your Facebook friends chastised you for using a dishwasher when only two people live in the house? That could be funny.

Okay that’s kind of a funny but it’s a quick joke. It’s like, “What are you nondishwasher people, Amish?” That sort of thing is all the joke is. There are a few jokes in there about giving the car up for a horse and buggy and … gah it’s not a very long post if I do that.

See that’s the point. Every blog you like has a lot of short posts. They’re all quick, witty, fun and short reads. Do more updates like that. “Sweet Mother” and “Oh God my wife is German” are two blogs you read a lot and they never post three page diatribes of profanity, boob references and ill-informed opinion on the catholic church (although either might do a boob reference piece tomorrow and how cool would that be?)

Make this shit shorter, shorter is better.

Blah, write it the way you want to. If it takes up three pages in a MS word document for you to ramble on about hookers, boobs and beer, that’s not a bad thing.

Okay then but about WHAT?

How about something silly Dagmar does. You can play the fool and she can be the wise woman but it’ll be funny. Those work great for Facebook because they’re short and simple though. Dagmar says something, I say something, Dagmar calls you XYZ and a comment war starts out among your friends.

I might as well write a blog update that boils down to wives smart, husbands dumb.

Okay so then what?

What about politics. You love politics. Half of your iPhone’s podcasts are politics. You read like 80 million political news sources a day … do one on politics. Really. You once had an entire conversation with yourself about whether or not you could actually force yourself to masturbate only to images of Andrea Markel*. I think you concluded that ‘yes you could’. See that’s kind of funny …

I did one on politics, two I think … both, together, were read by like eight people half of whom where spammers. How many more Viagra comments do you want or need? None.

Yes but. I have ideas for more of each of those (okay not another ‘Merica F’ yeah cause well I don’t live in America anymore so it’s kind of tough at the moment) but refine them. Remember how much ‘Merica F’ yeah part two sort of sucked. Yeah refine the ideas dumbass. Turn down the flame on the idea and let it cook. Besides the military one you’re close to finishing …

So you have nothing, is that what you’re saying?

It is.

Does that mean this one is the next update?

I just typed it didn’t I?

* I feel this needs explanation. Once upon a time Dagmar told me that Henry Kissingerwas sexy. A proclamation that I

Call me!

reacted too by asking, “WHAT THE FUCK?” She explained thusly, he’s very smart, very powerful and to hell with what he looks like. That I understood. It led to many, too many, what if scenarios in my head though. Hillary Clinton is kind of hot. There I said it. If by some odd chance Condoleezza Rice is reading this call me, please. I’ll cash in one of Dagmar and my ‘get out of jail cards!’ Really I will.

I’m going to have to kill myself before Saturday. Okay maybe kill myself is a bit strong but I’m talking totally believable suicidal gestures. You know the kind, I’ll eat a bottle of Flintstone vitamins and post a suicide note here, or I’ll cut my wrists with a dull butter knife (but it’ll totally hurt) while listening to whatever Goth song is currently number one on iTunes or I’ll …

Okay never mind I’m not going to kill myself before Saturday but at some point this Saturday I’ll wish I had.

The first hint that I was about to be forced into doing something I consider equal to a colonoscopy on the ‘scale of fun’ came yesterday morning when Dagmar noted she hated the curtains in the guest bedroom.

We’ve been married a while. I knew what this meant. It didn’t mean she’d go find new ones more on her lunch

Ikea, we destory men's souls

break. It didn’t mean she’d surf the web looking for the type and color she wanted. No it meant something more ominous, something darker. It meant I was going, with her, to Ikea.

I did the math in my head and quickly guessed that there was five percent chance that I could get out of going with her and a 95% chance I would be craving the sweet sweet kiss of death at about one p.m. this Saturday afternoon.

I did the smart thing, I kept my mouth shut and simply muttered something like “I like them but if you want new ones okay.”

It was ‘May Day’ a holiday for labors across the world (except for us non-commie ‘Mericans) and spring has sprung here in Europe. Point is what should have been a quick (no traffic) and pleasant drive on a fine spring morning was ruined.

My mind raced with thought about how to get out of the dreadful Ikea experience.

As I said Spring has sprung here in Deutchland. The sun is out, there are bee’s in the flowers we planted last weekend and Dagmar has that insane’ let’s rip the house apart in a maniacal desire to remove the dirt’ look in her eye.

I get spring cleaning, I do. It makes sense and while I’m not a fan of it (check my Facebook ‘likes’ I’m not) I understand it and don’t enjoy living in filth anymore than anyone does. I’ll participate, if given detailed instructions I might even do the chore slightly better than ‘halfassed’. I’m a man though I’m best turned loose in the garage with ‘clean this crap up’ as guidance.

But this, this Ikea trip, I did not see coming. We’ve been in this house a few years, Ikea trips are what you do when you move in … this one was out of the left field.

I had to see Dagmar right before a meeting I had yesterday afternoon. That’s when she dropped the bomb officially while we were discussing what we were going to do that weekend. “We’re”. Crap she used the word we’re (death sentence right at the sentence’s start. “We’re going to Ikea.”

I now calculated my chances of getting out of this at less than one percent. Newt Gingrich’s moon colony and presidential nomination are more likely.

I did what any other trapped animal does in this situation, I panicked. I think I even started to gnaw off my own legs.

“I was going to hang that picture in the living room like you wanted,” I volunteered before realizing that would take about 15 minutes if I took a smoke break in the middle. I needed something of substance. I seriously considered ordering a hot tub from my iPhone (which how cool is that, we can do that today) with a hopeful Saturday delivery date. I considered enrolling in one more college courses right that minute so that you know, “the weekends are when I study honey”.

I had nothing, in fact I had added to my misery. I was going to clean the garage I said which was met with, you ARE going to clean the garage but you’re still going to Ikea.

I know, I screwed that up royally.

If you’re a guy reading this you know exactly what I mean. If you’re a girl reading this you’re saying what is the big deal it’s just a trip to a store.

I’m going to break it down for you ladies …

We’ve seen this movie a thousand times before. It’s a good movie to be sure and when we first watched it we loved it, but now we know that it’s the same movie. The purchases change but the lead up the purchase is exactly the same, every time.

Every man, ever, eventually turns over these kinds of purchases to his wife, significant other, long time girlfriend whatever. We do and we do it because you’re right and we have long ago conceded that. When we turned those decisions over to you ladies, our input, in our minds at least, became irrelevant. It’s not that we don’t care about the curtains in the guest bedroom it’s that we’ve learned from long and hard experience that you’re smarter about what shade of, insert trendy color here, goes with, other trendy color here, better than we do.

Thus we don’t care anymore. If our opinion is generally, and I admit it is, wrong we stop caring about giving it.

We’re just there as a cheer leader toward whatever side you seem to be leaning toward during the decision regarding what kind of throw pillow you should buy. Mentally we’re going “well she seems to like that one at the moment, encourage that one.” It becomes all about hurrying the process along so we can leave the goddamn aisle and maybe someday, before we’re old and senile, check out, go home and drink beer.

I’m pretty sure you can trace all this back to evolution or at least the study of primitive hunter-gather societies. Studies have shown the gathers, typically woman, worked a whole lot harder than the men’s hunter role. While women were out debating which berry was yummy and which berry would turn you into a dead person men were at the village wondering if they could ferment rocks to make booze and drawing crude stick figure porn in nearby caves.

But when word came that the elk, buffalo, whatever herd was near the hunters of the tribe “saddled up and rode” bitches! Meaning I can go to Ikea alongside Dagmar (and yes this is basically the same as the vacuum analogy) but I’m going to dart in, find the curtain that comes closest to the one you described to me and then get out.

You women though are going there to gather. “Oh that shiny thing would be great in the hallway” and “Oh that would be fun to put in the bathroom” and “My cousin (twice removed and never met in person) would love this,” will be uttered countless times and the dreadful question, “what do you think” will be asked. I’ll try to process the question but the “you’re not right, she is” gene will kick in and I’ll again boil it down to I don’t care at all.

Ikea is the worst of all the shopping trips. The store is designed like one of those rat and cheese mazes making the possibility that even after we finally move forward three feet after an agonizing 30 minutes of looking at a

There is only one way in and one way out ...

picture frame we’ll stop again to see which vanity set for the bathroom would look ‘cute’. The Ikea here even has a small restaurant/bar thingy in the middle of it (I think for asshole husbands like me) but I can’t even work up enthusiasm for it because there’s BEER at the goddamned house.

I even asked for suggestions on how to get out of this on facebook but honestly that compounded my misery is all as Adrian Schulte reminded me that Saturday Ikea trips were worse than ALL OTHER Ikea trips. Cameron Christianson alluded to the mythical shortcut through the store but this kind of exploration isn’t authorized during our trips and Jerry O’Hara suggests a badly timed “gas” incident that just might work but in the end I resigned myself.